The Love That We Leave Behind
by Lymie Eros
Summary: When Veronica discovers that Keith and Logan are having an affair, she turns to Dick, which is probably not the smartest move. Can she leave her past behind her and move on? Or will she discover that she’s still in love with LoVe … KeLo VePiz VeDick
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Veronica Mars belongs to UPN, the CW, Rob Thomas, and that hobo that lives in the basement of the Neptune Grand (well, maybe not the last one, but you know what I mean!!)

Warning: M/M sex, angst, bad language, etc.

**The Love That We Leave Behind**

By Lymie Eros

Chapter 1: My Former Flame is Fucking My Father

I could hear the sounds of a scuffle coming from Dad's bedroom. If there really was an intruder, I wanted to be prepared, so I quickly and quietly grabbed a baseball bat from my own room before creeping out into the hallway.

It was the middle of the night, so everything was completely quiet and dark. I allowed myself the bare minimum of time for my eyes to adjust to the darkness before approaching the door to my dad's bedroom. The sounds were definitely coming from inside, and they were louder than before, too—it sounded as though my dad was struggling with someone, which meant that every moment was of the essence. I had no time to think—I had to act, and quickly.

I opened the door carefully and quietly—thankfully, the hinges were recently oiled so no creaking sound resulted. I started to creep into the room, baseball bat firmly in hand, prepared to protect my territory and my family.

But then … I saw it.

My eyes had by this time fully adjusted to the darkness of the room. Silhouetted against the pale moonlight that shone through the curtains, I saw my father having sex with another man on his bed.

I froze instantly; this was not something I had ever expected to see with my own eyes. Nor something I had ever _wanted_ to see with my own eyes. Even though my parents were no longer together, I had certainly never suspected … at least, not from my own father …

I'd never even thought that my dad could be gay.

And the other man … even though they were both only silhouettes in the dark night, there seemed to be something familiar about him. I couldn't help but staring as he groaned into the pillow beneath him as my dad pumped into him from behind.

So that's what the sounds had been. It wasn't a scuffle caused by a burglar at all; it was the sound of the bed creaking, the sound of wet skin slapping together, and the sound of my dad penetrating another man from behind …

As quickly as I could, without letting on that I had been there at all, I carefully backed out of the room, closing the door along the way. I was completely numb—I could barely even comprehend what I had just seen, let alone have any feelings on it yet. It was like someone had punched me in the gut and then wrapped a cloth dipped in chloroform over my nose and mouth. I might as well be passed out, for all that I could think or feel right now.

And, in my state of confusion and mental sluggishness, I made a terrible mistake. I backed up too far, and tripped, which sent the baseball bat from my hand flying into the air where it crashed into the wall opposite me as I myself crashed to the ground, banging my head on the wall behind me. Yeah, narrow hallways suck.

As I began to drift away from consciousness, hoping beyond hope that I didn't have some sort of concussion, I heard noises from inside my dad's room. Different noises, I mean, not the creepy my-dad-is-having-sex-with-a-guy-half-his-age noises.

I hoped that when I woke up—_if_ I woke up, I should say, since I honestly didn't know at that point whether I would live or die, and I think I felt some wet, sticky blood flowing out the back of my head where I had crashed into the wall—which, by the way, _really_ hurt—that I wouldn't remember anything, or that I would think that it had all been some sort of crazy dream.

And that might really have happened, too. I might have been able to forget, to maintain what small sliver of innocence I still had left before that night.

If only they hadn't come out at just the wrong moment.

"Veronica?!" I heard Dad calling. Ah, so the jig was up. And for some reason, even though my mind was fading into blackness, I _still_ hadn't lost consciousness. I really wished that it would hurry up. In movies people always faint right away; why can't it be like that in real life? Why does it have to linger, when you just want everything to go black and fade away already?

And then the door to my dad's bedroom opened, and he wasn't the only one who stood there, naked, staring down at me in horror. I guess the site of me lying awkwardly half on the floor and half up against the wall, with my blood spilling down the wall behind me and pooling on the floor—my poor pajamas would _have_ to go, there's no way they'd ever be able to get those blood-stains out—was a bit shocking to both of them.

But, no matter how awful I looked at that moment, there was no way either of them could have been even half as shocked as I was.

"Logan?!" I somehow managed to exclaim when I suddenly realized the identity of the person who stood behind my dad—the same person that had just been in there, doing—

Before I could think anymore about what it all meant, everything went black.

I had passed out … at the worst possible moment. My dad and my ex-boyfriend were sleeping together … how could I ever forget something like that?

XO XO XO XO XO XO XO

Next Chapter: Veronica has a heart-to-heart with Dick ... and tries to deal with her leftover feelings for Logan ... Not to mention that she's still dating Piz ... And then there's her dad ... And what about Parker?! And Mac?!


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: Yay! I got my first flame for this story!! I'm so happy. Well, I don't know, but personally I kind of like the Logan & Keith pairing. It's just so … unexpected, right?!?! I actually have another Logan/Keith story that I'm working on right now. I think they have become my favorite odd couple from VM. Maybe even more than Dick and Veronica.

Warning: Angst, bad humor (which is kind of offensive!), bad language, Dick being a Dick (as usual!!), etc. Oh, and I have nothing against Jews, but I find Mel Gibson kind of annoying. (Sorry!!)

**The Love That We Leave Behind**

By Lymie Eros

Chapter 2: Dick Casablancas, Grief Counselor

I awoke in a hospital bed, but the first thought that came to mind was: 'My dad was fucking Logan.'

And then from beside my bed, I heard: "So, I hear Logan was fucking your dad last night."

My eyes were still closed, but I recognized that voice. Only one person could possibly be so insensitive as to say something like that to an injured person lying in a hospital bed. And furthermore, how the Hell could he even tell that I was awake when I hadn't even opened my eyes yet?

So I popped one eye open and attempted to glare at him from the corner of my eye. I had never realized until that moment just how hard it is to glare at someone with only one eye.

"Shut up, Dick." I told him.

Dick just grinned. "I always knew you could turn a man gay," he said with a nod. "I just didn't think that Logan would be your first target." He shook his head with mock sadness, but the grin on his face betrayed his true intentions. I wondered if I was the only one who had noticed his uncanny resemblance to the ever-smiling Cheshire cat from Alice in Wonderland.

I started to sit up, then winced and fell back onto the soft pillows. Finally, I opened both my eyes and fully surveyed my situation. The hospital room was very typical; white, white, and more white, with only the slightest hint of beige trim. And a few metallic instruments lying on a table on the other side of the room that I sincerely hoped had not been used on me. There was an IV sticking out of my left arm—Dick was in a chair on the other side of my hospital bed—and a big bag of fluid connected to the IV hung menacingly overhead. I put one hand up to my head, and confirmed what I had felt since I had first awoken; there was a huge roll of gauze wrapped around my head, presumably holding some sort of bandage to the part that had bumped into the wall. The back of my head still let off a dull ache; but my thoughts came out clearly, so it seemed that there was no significant or permanent damage. With a sigh of relief, I settled back against the pillows and stared up at the ceiling.

For a minute there, I had been so absorbed in myself and my situation that I had completely forgotten about Dick.

Dick was frowning at me. "What, no snappy comeback?" he asked. His concern sounded sincere, but I knew better. Dick didn't have a single sincere bone in his body. "You must've hit your head harder than they thought."

I turned my head slightly to the side to look at him, then immediately regretted it as the pain began shooting through my whole body from the wound on the back of my head. The only way I could look at him was to keep my head straight and glare at him from the corner of my eyes. It was a little easier this time, since I had both eyes open, but still remained ineffective. Normally my glare would make Dick at least a little nervous; today, it simply had no effect.

"What are you doing here, anyway?" I asked abruptly. "Shouldn't my visitors be people I actually want to see, like my friends or my family—"

My family … the only real family I had was Dad. And right now, I didn't think I could even stand to look at him. If I looked at him, I'd remember that image seared onto my brain since last night, the image of him standing beside …

"Your Dad has to work, and Logan is … shall we say, indisposed." He winked at me. "Besides, I'm not here as a friend or anything; I'm here in my professional capacity."

"_You_ have a job?" I asked incredulously. "As what, a gigolo?"

"Of course not," he scoffed. For some reason, he sounded genuinely offended. "That's my night job. It's not even noon yet; I don't start work for another six hours." I honestly couldn't tell whether he was joking or not, but it seemed to me that there might have been a slight twinkle in his eye.

He pulled his wallet out of the pocket of his jeans, and out of his wallet he pulled a business card. "Here," he said, shoving the card in front of my face as though it were my arms that had been injured instead of my head. "This is my profession _du jour_."

I wondered for a moment if Dick actually knew what that meant before grabbing the card out of his hand and examining it. If I wasn't already in enough shock after the events from last night, this would have put me over the top.

"Dick Casablancas, Grief Counselor?" My voice was laced heavily with a mixture of sarcasm and incredulity.

"It says "Richard Casablancas, Jr.," he said, sounding hurt, "I'm kind of offended that you won't even read it properly!"

"However you want to spell your name is no business of mine," I said breezily. For some reason, I was beginning to feel a bit tired, but I tried desperately to hold on to my consciousness. After all, who knew—the next time I fell asleep could be my last.

"Besides," I added, "What do I need a grief counselor for?"

"Veronica," he began, his voice sounding as though he was about to launch into a long-winded speech—which, I found out much to my dismay, he was indeed about to—"Let me tell you a little something about grief. It comes in many forms. Some are physical, such as the death of a loved one." A single tear slipped down his cheek, but from the corner of my eye I could see him stuffing something into his pocket that looked vaguely like an eyedropper, so it was probably fake. "Some are mental, such as the death of a beloved cartoon character." Another tear slipped down his cheek, but this time I had the feeling that it was real. "And some forms of grief are caused by betrayal. The betrayal of people that you once trusted, who broke that trust, and left you defenseless to be killed by the Roman dogs. And the Jews." He was trembling with rage now. "Betrayed, just like Jesus," he said bitterly, "Those damn Jews!! They're lucky Mel Gibson wasn't alive back then! Or he would have killed them all and single-handedly saved Jesus! Dammit!" He leaned over and burst into tears, holding his head in his hands.

Dick continued to cry as I wondered what type of drugs he was on. Definitely not pot; that would make him lazy, not worked up into a state like this. It could be cocaine—that would definitely put him on edge. Heroin, maybe? Or it could be a "snowball," a mixture of heroin and cocaine. But in that case, if he was high he wouldn't come to the hospital in the first place, right? Unless he came to the hospital in order to get his drugs of choice …

Finally, Dick pulled a tissue out of his pocket—really, he has more stuff packed into those things than Dennis Kucinich—blew his nose, and put it back in his pocket—which was completely disgusting. Then he turned towards me and took my hand in both of his and squeezed it. I really wanted to pull it away, but any sudden movements would have caused my head to jostle, leading to immediate and intense pain—so there was really nothing I could do to shake him off of me.

"Look," he said, in what appeared to be an actual moment of seriousness, his hands grasped firmly around mine, "Your situation isn't all that bad. I mean, so your ex-boyfriend is going to be like your step-dad—at least until gay marriage is legalized in California, and then he'll be your _real _step-dad—but so what? If Logan hadn't banged my step-mom first, I would have totally hit that! It's the same thing with you, except," I could see the little wheels turning in his brain. They weren't clockwork wheels, but rather wheels turned by mice running on them. Not pretty, and certainly not what you'd want inside your brain. "Except … it's like the opposite. I don't think there's even a problem to it!" He finished with a dramatic flourish.

"That's because you're a douchebag, Dick," I explained patiently. "I'm not. It's … it's my _dad_. And _Logan_. I mean …" How on Earth could I explain what I felt like at this moment? How could I possibly say out loud all the thoughts that were running through my mind? If I let loose with my true feelings, the tough façade that I always wore would crumble down around me, and I did _not_ want to burst into tears in front of Dick Casablancas, of all people.

So I tried as hard as I could to explain while keeping my voice from shaking, but with little success. "I thought there was … a burglar, or something," I explained, taking a deep breath before continuing. "I … heard noises, it sounded like a struggle …" and now I was the one struggling; struggling to cope with this bizarre situation, struggling to find the words to express how I felt, struggling with long-buried feelings that had suddenly risen to the surface to taunt me with their very existence …

"I … went to see what was going on. And then, I saw …" I shut my eyes tightly, holding back the stinging tears that wanted to escape and flow freely. I couldn't let them. I _wouldn't_ let them. I wouldn't humiliate myself in front of Dick, of all people.

"It's okay, Veronica."

At the sound of his voice saying something so out of character, I immediately turned my head to look at him. But instead of the usual feeling of pain that I expected, my head was just … numb. And I stared at him, at Dick, wondering at that look in his eyes. There seemed to be some sort of compassion there. As though he understood what I was going through.

But there was no way that Dick Casablancas could ever understand what I was going through. What I had seen. What I wanted to forget …

"I want to forget," I told him. Of all the people in the world I could have told, I was sharing my deepest darkest secrets with Dick. I knew that I would regret it some day, but I was desperate. I was drowning; drowning so deep in a figurative pool of my own blood. There was no one I could trust. I certainly couldn't trust Dick. But he was there, right when I needed someone—anyone—to listen to my thoughts and my fears and my troubles. And he was the only one there; the only one who would listen to me. Yes, he would judge me; yes, he would tease me after the fact. But for the few minutes during which I could unburden myself onto his unsuspecting ears, during those minutes I would be free. Free from the pain and the anger and the shock and the grief.

Yes, grief.

Dick was right. Grief did come in many forms. And one of those forms was betrayal. The betrayal of a man I once loved and the betrayal of the man who had brought me into this world. Two of the people closest to me had betrayed me, and the grief I felt over their betrayal tore me apart from the inside.

"I want to forget," I said again as I licked my suddenly dry lips. "I want to forget everything. Last night, this morning, everything that I know is going to come after this. I just want to get it all over with and then … forget it. I just want to forget. That's all."

"I understand."

Maybe … maybe he really did understand. At least, that's what I began to think, for a few hopeful moments.

But then … he leaned down and kissed me. On the lips.

I had never been more surprised than at that moment. Being kissed by Dick Casablancas was even more surprising and disturbing than finding my ex-boyfriend in bed with my father. And that's saying something. At least I wouldn't be needing a grief counselor anymore.

Then again …

In my shock, I hadn't bothered to close my eyes, although Dick had closed his. And from my vantage point half-sitting in my adjustable hospital bed, I could see over the top of his head towards the door to my private hospital room. And standing there in the doorway, dead still, with a bouquet of flowers in hand, watching Dick kissing me was …

Piz.

My boyfriend.

I might just be needing some of that grief counseling after all, I thought to myself as my eyes met his.

XO XO XO XO XO XO XO

Next Chapter: Veronica is discharged from the hospital, and has a talk with someone (who?!) And what about Piz?! And Mac?! And Parker?!!? AND KEITH?!?!? AND ARE WEEVIL AND WALLACE GOING TO JOIN KEITH AND LOGAN FOR A BROKEBACK-STYLE ORGY?!?!!!? OMG!!! Too much to write!!! Author overload!!! KABOOM!

Also, I know the chapters seem short, but if I do longer chapters it will take me forever to update, so I figured I'll try to do shorter chapters with just one or two scenes, and update more frequently.


	3. Chapter 3

Warnings: Mentions of M/M sex, M/F sex/sexual situations, angst, drug use, alcohol use by minors, Dick being himself (again!), Piz being himself (kinda boring), Logan being himself (super-angsty), etc.

**The Love That We Leave Behind**

By Lymie Eros

Chapter 3: Veronica Mars is One Pizzed-Off Motherfucker!

As I stared into the eyes of my boyfriend—quite possibly, considering my current situation, my soon-to-be-_ex­_-boyfriend—I heard a noise coming from Dick, whose head rested above mine. From just above the point where our lips touched, I heard a strange sound coming from the general vicinity of his nose.

Dick was snoring.

No wonder his eyes were closed. He wasn't trying to kiss me—he'd just fallen asleep conveniently on top of me.

What the Hell?

"Mmmfff!!" I exclaimed as I tried to push him off of me while not in any way damaging my already damaged head or the IV that was precariously connected via needle to my left arm.

Piz, standing frozen in the doorway, seemed to respond to my call for help, and all at once he rushed into the room and pulled Dick off of me by grabbing the back of his shirt and dragging him into the chair beside the hospital bed, where Dick had originally been sitting when I first awoke.

Dick awoke suddenly, chuckling. "Dude, Ronnie" he exclaimed, "You taste like bed pans and benzoil!" He started laughing hysterically.

Both Piz and I stared at Dick, then looked at each other, then back to Dick.

"What the Hell, Dick," I exclaimed, still unable to move my head for fear that the intense pain would return, "What's wrong with you?"

Dick was laughing so hard that he had to gasp for air. He turned to Piz, still laughing and gasping, and said, "Dude, she _totally_ came on to me! I didn't want it, she just pulled me down and had her way with me. I feel so … _used_!" He doubled over, roaring with laughter after that last line.

Piz blinked and looked back and forth between the two of us. "Umm … did I miss something here?" he asked.

I thought that Piz was terribly cute when he was confused. Absolutely adorable—unlike certain jerkwads like the one who sat in the visitor's chair beside my bed, laughing his ass off at something that wasn't even funny.

"I can't even move my head," I explained to Piz, choosing to ignore Dick rather than deal with his shit. "As you can see," I said as I waved my non-IV-drip arm around to point out all the hospital paraphernalia surrounding me, "if he falls on top of me there's nothing I can do about it."

"Right, I can see that," Piz said before glancing at Dick again, then choosing the same path as me—to ignore the crazy man in the room. "But what's wrong with him? Why is he laughing like that?"

"You're asking the wrong person," I said, "He was here when I woke up. Unfortunately."

"Oh, uh, these are for you," Piz held out the flowers.

At that moment, before I could take the flowers and thank Piz for them, Dick grabbed them and vomited directly into the bouquet.

"Ew! Dick!" I exclaimed, disgusted.

Dick sat back with a sigh, now apparently finished with his laughing-spree. "I feel so much better now," he said. He turned to Piz, a serious look on his face. "I apologize for sucking face with your girlfriend," he said, "but I stand by what I said before—she totally came onto me!"

"Stop being a dick, Dick," I bit out, unable to hide the venom behind my words.

"Are you mad at me?" Dick looked hopeful, and started guffawing. "Veronica Mars is one_Pizzed-off_ motherfucker!" He doubled over laughing again. Unfortunately, this time the bouquet of flowers in which he had just deposited his lunch—or whichever meal he'd had before coming here—fell from his hand to the floor, and his vomit scattered over the hospital floor. Not a very appealing sight—_or_ smell.

Dick's vomit definitely reeked of alcohol.

"Have you been drinking?!" I asked in disbelief. "It's not even noon yet! What kind of _grief counselor_ are you supposed to be?" I couldn't believe I'd just said that. Since when had I started taking Dick_seriously_? Grief counselor my ass! Dick was just trying to have some fun at my expense while I was in a vulnerable state, unable to harm him or seek revenge. Well, I thought, just wait until I get out of this hospital, Dick—I will make you regret using me for your little game!

"Well," he ran a hand through his messy blond hair, "I haven't been drinking _per se_. It's more of a drug cocktail. Hey—when in Rome, right?" He shrugged and then gestured towards the surroundings of the hospital room. "We're in a _hospital_! They've practically got pills flowing out of the drippy-tube things!" He pointed to the fluid-filled bag that hung above my bed attached to my IV. "Do you know how high that thing is going to make you, Ronnie? Huh? Do ya? I mean, look at me, I am high as a _kite_!"

He seemed to ponder that last statement for a moment as Piz and I watched on in stunned silence, then suddenly began to wax philosophical in a way that only Dick can.

"You know, I don't know why it's 'high as a kite,'" he said, "It's supposed to mean that you're high to a great extent, but a kite really isn't all that high, when you come to think about it. I mean, airplanes are a lot higher than kites. Why isn't it 'High as an airplane'? Or 'high as a helicopter'? Or 'high as a fighter jet'?" He asked. "Wouldn't that make a lot more sense? Or maybe, you know what gets really high, is a _spaceship_, they go all the way up and out of the atmosphere." He frowned. "But once you get into space, it's not really _high_ anymore, is it? It's more like far instead of high, because there's no up or down or gravity or anything. So shouldn't it be 'as far as' a spaceship instead of 'as high as'? But then," he added, "there are different degrees of highness. Like right now for example, I said I'm high as a kite, but really, this is nothing compared to a nice long bong hit of some good weed. So why aren't there different degrees of height within the metaphors? Like, high as a kite would be kinda high, high as a plane would be higher, and high as a spaceship would be the highest? That makes a lot more sense to me." He crossed his arms over his chest and frowned, lost in his own little world—a world that completely boggled my mind.

"Dick" I began, unsure of exactly what to say. Right now, I thought, _I_ should be the one rolling around on the floor laughing my ass off—except that would probably be against Doctor's orders for my head.

Ignoring my small interruption, Dick suddenly perked up and said, in a perfect non sequitur fashion—which, at least in my mind, perfectly matched his current mental state—"You wouldn't _believe_ the stuff you can get around here just by sweet-talking the nurses!" He grinned. "And the nurses!" he flopped backwards in his chair and I dared not look _anywhere_ below his waist, lest I find an unwanted surprise poking up from his crotch.

"Just which pills did you take?" Thankfully, Piz had somehow managed to keep his head on his shoulders in a way in which I had not—but then again, my head was injured, so I think I had a pretty good excuse for my own incoherence in a bizarre situation like this.

"I dunno, uh … I think Adderol," he began ticking off on his fingers, "Vicodin, Oxy-something-or-other, something else, and three cans of beer."

"Don't you think that combining all those meds might be, uh, fatal, or something?" Piz asked hesitantly. He leaned over, in what appeared to be an attempt to pick up the forgotten bouquet of ruined flowers off the floor.

"Dude!" Dick launched towards Piz faster than either of us could react, and soon held my boyfriend by the collar, pressing him back across my legs atop the hospital bed. Things were getting way out of hand here.

"Dick, stop it!" I exclaimed, but he paid no attention to me.

"Don't tase me, bro!" he exclaimed as he slammed Piz against the hospital bed—and my legs! "Don't tase me!" Finally with what seemed to be super-human strength, he lifted Piz into the air by his collar and flung him across the bed. Piz landed on the far edge and then tumbled off the side, crashing into the carts there and spilling their contents to the floor—as well as causing the stand beside my bed to tumble over, ripping my IV painfully out of my arm as the bag with the intravenous fluids burst open on the floor.

"Piz!" I shouted as I struggled to lift myself into a sitting position. My head was throbbing, my arm was aching and bleeding where the IV had been ripped out of my veins, and I felt like I was going to pass out. But I had to make sure that Piz was ok. If anything happened to him—if something happened to him, I—

On the other side of the bed, I heard a loud plop as Dick fell to the floor, unconscious. I didn't know what was going on here, but I knew something had to be done. Both Dick and Piz were lying on the floor, and neither of them appeared to be moving or even awake.

"Nurse!" I called out, hoping that someone outside in the hallway would hear my cries for help, "Nurse!! It's an emergency!"

* * *

"Say 'ahhhhh.'"

"Ahhhh," I said as I opened my mouth and stuck out my tongue.

Even though tongue depressors were seriously old-fashioned and not really even necessary anymore, the doctor peered into the darkness of my throat.

"Alright, that does it," he said as he pulled the tongue depressor out of my mouth and began to pack his things away. "You've got a clean bill of health, young lady." He smiled at me. "I wouldn't be surprised if you lived to be a hundred!"

"Thank you, Dr. Smith," I said.

It was three days after that terrible incident in my hospital room. My head was feeling much better, my symptoms of headaches and dizziness had gone down, and I was finally ready to be released from the hospital. After this one last check by the doctor, I could finally go home.

"Be sure to contact me if you have any relapse symptoms, Miss Mars," Dr. Smith said sternly. He was short and round and bald, and kind of looked like Santa Clause without the beard.

I sat on the edge of the examining room table, swinging my legs back and forth in front of me. Sometimes being petite has its advantages—like when your feet aren't forced to touch the ground when you're seated.

"By the way," I said as I stopped swinging my legs and looked at the doctor seriously, "What exactly was my diagnosis when I first came in?"

The doctor checked his chart. "Oh, that was just a mild concussion," he said brightly. "It's nothing to worry about—there was no extensive damage, and no permanent injury to the brain. But you still have to be careful—no impacts to the head, and if you have any recurring symptoms such as headaches, dizziness, or memory loss, you must contact me_immediately_. If it turns out you have PCS—that is, post-concussion syndrome—it's best if you notify me as soon as possible." He patted my knee and added, "I wouldn't worry about that in your case though, Miss Mars—you're as healthy as a horse!"

"But what about all the blood?" I asked. I still wanted to get to the bottom of what exactly happened that night. Although the doctor said that everything was fine, but with that diagnosis—things just didn't add up. "After I hit my head, I thought I felt blood—a lot of it. If that wasn't an injury, then what—"

"Oh, that," Dr. Smith said, "that was from an old injury on the back of your head that reopened when you hit your head. We stitched it up as soon as you were brought in, and removed the stitches a few days later while you were still unconscious." He leaned behind me and pulled back some of my hair to examine the spot he was talking about. "Yes, it seems to be all better now," he said before lowering my hair and moving back to the task of packing up his tools.

"But—wait—what do you mean, a few days later while I was still unconscious?" I'd had a sneaking suspicions for awhile, but no one had said anything to me outright. Had I really been unconscious for over a day?

The doctor sighed. "Well, when you came in we thought at first that the injury might be more severe than it was due to the fact that you wouldn't wake up, but—" he glanced at me from the corner of his eye and then looked away. "It seems as though the unconsciousness was not directly caused by the concussion. Rather, you seemed to have suffered from some sort of mental trauma, such as receiving a big shock—a mental one, not the physical one caused by your head injury. If you were to receive both the mental and physical shocks at the same time—well, that would tend to magnify the effect of receiving the mental shock alone."

"How long?" I asked. I felt as though the past few days of my life since I'd found out—well, since I'd found out about _that_—was like a big puzzle, and only now was I finally able to piece together a solution. And with every piece of information I received, one more piece was being added to the puzzle.

But what the puzzle would turn out to be when it was finally completed … there was no box top with a picture of what the completed puzzle would look like. And to even _think_ about what it might look like scared the living daylights out of me.

"Six and a half days," came Dr. Smith's simple answer.

It felt like my whole world was crashing down around me. Almost a week of my life had been spent unconscious, recovering from that huge mental shock? And then the scene when I woke up—it felt almost like it had all been staged.

"Did my Dad come to visit me even once?" I could barely keep my voice from breaking as I said it, but somehow I managed. The nurse had told me after I woke up that they had called my dad to tell him the good news—but he never came to visit, not even once. Neither did Logan.

"I don't know," the doctor said honestly, "I don't handle visitation. You'll have to ask the attending nurse about that. Now, if you'll excuse me," he said with a smile and a brisk though gentle pat on my arm, "I have to go see my other patients. And you, Miss Mars, are free to leave the hospital whenever you want."

The doctor left the examining room after that, but I stayed. I sat there, staring across the room at nothing in particular. My legs still dangled off the end of the table, but they were still now. I sat there, unmoving, for more than an hour.

I felt … numb. Completely numb. The more I kept trying not to think about the moments before I hit my head that fateful night, the more they kept forcing their way into my mind. It almost made me wish I had retrograde amnesia—if I could forget that one night, and remember everything before it, I could live my life happily without any knowledge of what was going on between two of the most important people in my life.

But it didn't seem like I was going to be forgetting about it any time soon. Dammit, why can't the defense mechanisms in our brains work when we _want_ them too? I didn't want to deal with this. I didn't want to deal with a situation in which my father was sleeping with my ex-boyfriend. But I didn't have a choice. I felt as though my whole world had just turned upside-down. I felt … helpless.

I'm Veronica Mars. I_hate_ feeling helpless!

There was a light knock on the door, and Piz stuck his head in.

I forced a smile for him. "Hey, Piz. Come to take me home?"

"Yeah," he smiled back. "It's okay for you to leave the hospital, right?"

"Mm-hmm." I hopped off the table and sauntered over to the door. Yes, in spite of the Hell I was about to face, I didn't have to face it alone. I had someone on my side that would support me through thick and thin. That felt … really good.

Suddenly, I didn't want to go home at all. I wanted to stay here, and …

"Come here, you," I murmured seductively as I wrapped my arms around his neck, leaned up, and kissed him on the lips.

"Mmph?" he asked questioningly as my tongue invaded his mouth.

Seconds later, he was fully inside the examining room, the door had slammed shut with the force of our bodies, and his back was pressed against the closed door, with my entire body pressed up against his.

"Mmmm … Veronica ... wha…" I knew exactly what he was asking, and I didn't want to answer. I didn't want to talk, I didn't want to think. I just wanted to fuck.

I don't know what came over me. No, that's a lie. I know exactly what came over me. I was avoiding the truth, avoiding the confrontation that was sure to happen the minute I set foot in my home. I was using Piz as a means to an end—I wanted him to erase the memories that I didn't want. I was using him to clear my mind.

But it didn't work.

Whether the problem lay with Piz or with me, I don't know. But it didn't work. It didn't work, and that frustrated me. The harder I kissed him, the more that scene kept replaying in my mind—the two bodies, silhouetted in the moonlight, making love.

Yes, love.

Perhaps that was what hurt most—the thought that Logan and my dad weren't just sleeping with each other. They were in love. It was like … Brokeback Mars or Brokeback Neptune or something. A forbidden love between two men … and I was the woman that came between them.

It hurt. I had convinced myself so many times that I wasn't still in love with Logan Echolls. I was _sure_ of that. But that didn't erase the fact that it _hurt_.

If I didn't love him, then why did it hurt so much? Shouldn't I be happy to know that my dad had fallen in love—even if that person was half his age? Even if that person was a guy? Even if that person was my ex-boyfriend?

Everything kept pointing to the fact that I was still in love with Logan. I didn't want to be—but there it was. And here I was, making out with Piz—my_boyfriend_ Piz—and all I could do was think about another guy.

I don't think I'd ever felt more pathetic in my whole life.

By now Piz's body was supporting mine, and my legs were wrapped around his waist. I could feel his hard-on pressing into my thigh, and I rubbed my body against it, eliciting a moan from him. His hands were firmly planted on my ass, kneading the soft skin through the fabric of my jeans. My own hands were frantically trying to pull off his t-shirt, when I slipped a little, and one of my legs bumped painfully against his.

"Ouch!" he cried, and a moment later his legs seemed to give out. He nearly dropped me, but I managed to hang on to him and we collapsed together to the ground.

"Piz? Are you ok?" I'd completely forgotten about his injury. Three days ago, after their fight in my hospital room, both Piz and Dick had suffered some minor injuries. Piz had a large gash on his thigh, while Dick had to have his stomach pumped to get all the alcohol and drugs out of his system. Both had been released from the hospital shortly thereafter, but Piz still had to take care of his wound and re-bandage it twice a day.

Blood was clearly seeping through his jeans now—I had accidentally reopened his wound.

"Oh, Piz, I'm so sorry," I pulled down his jeans—which were already unzipped due to our previous activities—without even thinking and started to unwrap the bandages around his thigh. "I'll go get the doctor—"

As I tried to stand up, Piz grabbed me by the arm and pulled me to his chest.

"Don't go," he whispered into my ear, "I … don't want the doctors to see me like this."

He sounded embarrassed and when I looked down I saw that he was still very much erect, in spite of what had just happened.

"Piz," I said, "you're injured. I think the doctor should have a look at—"

He turned my head to his and kissed me forcefully. This move was unexpected, and somehow … it felt wrong.

The mood had been completely destroyed for me, and my earlier desire for sex was completely gone.

Worrying about Piz's re-opened wound had wiped my mind clean of all other thoughts in a way that having sex with him never could. And that was what I had really wanted out of him the whole time.

I felt incredibly selfish now, as though I were reneging on a promise. But my needs were already fulfilled—and for some reason, I didn't think I could go any further right now. I didn't _want_ to go any further.

If I knew then what I know now, I could have told myself clearly that it was because I didn't love Piz as much as I thought I did. But back then I _thought_ I was in love with him. And nothing could have persuaded me differently. At least—not yet.

I pulled away from his kiss, and extricated myself from his arms. "If the doctors don't take a look at that, it could get infected," I told him sternly. "I don't want to be the one responsible for you having to get your leg amputated!"

Piz just smiled lazily up at me. "It would be worth it, though," he said as he tried to reach for me again.

I stepped back. "No way," I said, putting my foot down. "I'm getting the doctor. You stay right there and don't move," I ordered. "We don't want to make it any worse than it already is."

"Yes, ma'am," he said with a hint of mockery and sulkiness in his voice, like a child who's just been denied the chance to play with his favorite toy.

It didn't feel like the beginning of the end to me. If I had known the signs, I guess that it would have. But how could I have known that at the same time my feelings for Piz were fading, my feelings for someone else had already begun to blossom?

* * *

Next Chapter: Veronica has a talk with this "blossom" person, Dick shows regret for his actions and actually appears to have a (gasp) HUMAN side, Logan is contrite but not THAT contrite, and Parker is ONE PIZZED-OFF MOTHERFUCKER who has the wrong idea and is not afraid to let everyone know that she thinks it!! 


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